Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~11 min read
The cameras arrived at 7:45 AM.
I woke to the sound of strangers invading the penthouse, voices echoing through walls that suddenly felt too thin. By the time I stumbled out in pajama shorts and an old band t-shirt, there were at least twelve people setting up equipment in the living room.
Leander sat at the kitchen island, fully dressed in workout clothes, drinking coffee like this was completely normal.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said. Loud enough for the crew to hear. Warm enough to sound affectionate.
I stared. We were already performing.
“Coffee’s fresh,” he continued, gesturing to the machine. “I made your favorite. Two sugars, splash of cream.”
How did he know that? Then I remembered—the contract probably included a questionnaire. They’d know everything about me. Favorite foods, pet peeves, the name of my childhood dog.
Information weaponized for entertainment.
A woman with a clipboard approached. “Morgana Duffy? I’m Iliana, production coordinator. We need you in hair and makeup in twenty minutes.”
“For breakfast?”
“For television.” She smiled like I was adorable and stupid. “Camera adds ten pounds and washes you out. Trust me, you want the help.”
Leander smirked into his coffee.
“Fine.” I grabbed a cup and retreated to my room.
Hair and makeup turned me into a polished version of myself. Still my leather jacket and ripped jeans, but now with perfect skin and artfully messy hair. The illusion of effortless while requiring maximum effort.
When I emerged, cameras were rolling.
“There she is,” Leander said, like he’d been waiting. Like he’d missed me during my forty-minute absence.
He pulled out a barstool. “I made breakfast. Scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, whole wheat toast. Atkins said you don’t eat red meat.”
Of course they’d interviewed my best friend. She probably told them everything, thinking she was helping.
“You didn’t have to,” I said, sitting.
“I wanted to.” He plated food with practiced ease. “Besides, if we’re going to convince America we’re in love, I should probably learn to take care of you.”
The words were for the cameras. But something in his tone felt almost genuine.
We ate in manufactured domesticity. Him asking about my documentary work. Me pretending to be interested in his tech acquisitions. Both of us playing roles we’d rehearsed without rehearsing.
“So the gala Wednesday,” he said. “We should coordinate outfits. I’ll wear charcoal, you could wear—”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“There’s a stylist coming tomorrow. She’ll have options.”
“I don’t need a stylist. I have clothes.”
His eyes dropped to my ripped jeans. “I’m sure you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that black tie events usually require—”
“I know what they require. I’m not an idiot.”
“I never said—”
“You implied.”
We glared at each other. Real tension crackling between us.
One of the producers practically glowed. “This is perfect,” she whispered to Iliana. “The banter, the chemistry. Keep going.”
I stood. “I have work to do.”
“Documentary stuff?” Leander asked.
“Yeah. Some of us still have to work for a living.”
“Low blow.”
“Truth hurts.”
I grabbed my laptop and headed to my room, feeling the cameras track my exit.
Inside, I collapsed on the bed and tried to breathe.
This was day one. How was I supposed to survive six months?
My phone exploded with notifications. The show’s official social media had posted:
Meet Chicago’s most unexpected couple! Morgana Duffy and Leander Cork start their journey on #LoveIncorporated. New episodes streaming weekly!
The comments were insane.
I KNEW they’d end up together!
This is the enemies-to-lovers arc we DESERVE
She slapped him and now they’re engaged? I’m here for this chaos
He’s so into her it’s painful to watch
There were already fan accounts. Edits. People analyzing our body language like we were animals in a zoo.
I’d wanted visibility for my documentary work. I’d gotten it.
Just not the way I’d imagined.
A knock on my door.
Leander entered without waiting for permission. No cameras in the bedrooms—Iliana had confirmed that much.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“About?”
“Your performance. You’re too hostile.”
“I am hostile. You’re insufferable.”
“I know. But the viewers can’t know that.” He sat on the edge of my bed, too close. “We’re supposed to be falling in love despite our differences. That means moments of softness. Vulnerability. Not constant bickering.”
“I don’t do vulnerable.”
“Neither do I. But we’re going to have to learn. Fast.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ve been reading viewer comments. They love the tension, but they also want to see us break down walls. Have real moments.”
“Those commenters know this is fake, right?”
“They don’t know anything. That’s the point.” He showed me a particularly earnest comment: When he made her breakfast my heart MELTED. She doesn’t see how much he cares yet.
“That person thinks you actually care about me.”
“I care about this working. That’s close enough.” He pocketed his phone. “Wednesday’s gala is crucial. It’s our first major public appearance. We need to sell it. That means hand-holding, affectionate touches, looking at each other like we’re the only people in the room.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“It’s not hard. You just—” He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Gentle. Intimate. “—make small gestures that suggest familiarity. Touching without thinking. Being in each other’s space like it’s natural.”
My breath caught. His hand lingered near my face.
“See?” he said softly. “Chemistry. We have it. We just need to use it.”
“That was just proximity. Not chemistry.”
“Was it?” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “Because your pulse is racing. I can see it. Right here.” His finger traced the side of my neck where my pulse hammered.
“Stop.” I pushed his hand away. “We’re not performing right now.”
“Aren’t we? There might not be cameras, but we’re still in character. Learning our roles.” He stood. “Iliana wants us to film a ‘date night in’ segment this evening. Order dinner, watch a movie, pretend to enjoy each other’s company. Can you handle that?”
“Can you?”
“I handle hostile business negotiations daily. One fake girlfriend is manageable.” He headed for the door. “Wear something cute. Viewers eat up domestic content.”
After he left, I noticed my hands were shaking.
That moment—him touching my face, my neck—had felt too real. Like the line between performance and reality had blurred just long enough to be dangerous.
I shook it off. This was a job. Nothing more.
I spent the afternoon editing old documentary footage, trying to lose myself in work that mattered. But every hour, production would interrupt. Asking me to do a confessional interview. Requesting B-roll of me in the penthouse. Wanting candid moments that were anything but candid.
“How does it feel living with Leander?” Iliana asked during one interview.
“Surreal. This time last week, I’d never met him. Now I’m waking up in his apartment, sharing coffee, pretending we’re building a life.”
“Pretending?”
Shit. Wrong word.
“I mean—it’s new. We’re still figuring each other out. Everything feels a bit like playing house.”
“But you’re falling for him?”
I thought about the contract. The NDA. The half-million dollars riding on maintaining this lie.
“Yeah. Against all my better judgment, I think I am.”
The lie tasted like ash.
That evening, cameras rolled while Leander and I ordered Thai food and picked a movie. He wanted action. I wanted documentary. We compromised on a thriller neither of us cared about.
“This is nice,” he said, settling onto the massive couch with calculated proximity. Not touching, but close enough.
“Define nice.”
“Normal. Not fighting. Just… existing together.”
The words were scripted, I was sure. But something in his delivery felt honest.
We ate pad thai straight from containers, shoulders bumping as we reached for napkins. His phone buzzed constantly—work emails he’d eventually check. Mine sat silent—friends who’d stopped reaching out after I’d chosen reality TV over reality.
“Question,” I said during a quieter scene. “Why did you really agree to this?”
He glanced at the camera, then back at me. Calculating what to say, what to hide.
“Image rehabilitation. Like Mia said.”
“The real reason.”
“That is the real reason.”
“Leander.”
He sighed. “Fine. You want honesty? My ex-fiancée—the one who embezzled from my company—got out of prison three months ago. She’s been doing interviews. Painting me as the villain. Saying I seduced her, used her, destroyed her when she was no longer useful.”
“None of that’s true, right?”
“Some of it is. I did use her—her family connections helped build my business. But I also loved her. Until I found out she was stealing from me to fund her father’s attempt to take over my company.”
“So you sent her to prison.”
“I pressed charges. The judge sent her to prison.” His jaw tightened. “But the court of public opinion sees me as the heartless CEO who imprisoned his own fiancée. So when Mia offered me a chance to look like someone capable of love, someone who’d give a woman like you a real chance? I took it.”
“A woman like me?”
“Genuine. Idealistic. The opposite of Felicity’s polished manipulation.” He turned to face me fully. “You’re the redemption arc I need. The proof I’m not the monster the tabloids painted.”
“I’m your PR strategy.”
“We’re each other’s strategy. Don’t act morally superior when you’re here for the same reasons—money and exposure.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
The cameras caught every moment of our tense honesty. Viewers would eat it up.
After the crew left around midnight, I found Leander in his home office. The door was open, light spilling out.
“Question,” I said from the doorway.
He looked up from his computer. “Another one?”
“If you could do anything with your life, what would it be?”
“Oddly philosophical for midnight.”
“I’m curious. You have infinite money, power, success. What else is there?”
He leaned back in his chair, considering. “Peace. Quiet. A day where I don’t have to calculate every move, anticipate every betrayal, perform every interaction.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It is. But loneliness is safer than trusting the wrong person again.”
I understood that more than I wanted to admit.
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I don’t think you’re a monster. Ruthless, yes. Calculated, absolutely. But not a monster.”
“Why not?”
“Because monsters don’t second-guess themselves. You do. I can see it.”
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.”
“Documentary filmmaker. It’s literally my job to see what people hide.”
“Then what am I hiding?”
“Besides the obvious? You’re hiding that you’re scared. Of being betrayed again. Of being seen as the villain. Of—” I hesitated.
“Of?”
“Of being alone. Truly alone. Not physically but emotionally. That’s why you agreed to this fake engagement. Not just for image. But because for six months, you don’t have to be alone. Even if it’s pretend.”
His eyes turned cold. Shuttered. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I?” I pushed off the doorframe. “Goodnight, Leander. Thanks for the honesty.”
I left him alone with his computer and his walls.
In my room, I pulled up the show’s social media. The dinner segment had already been posted as a teaser.
Twenty thousand comments in an hour.
The way he looks at her I CAN’T
She’s falling and doesn’t even know it yet
WHEN’S THE WEDDING BECAUSE I’M READY
I closed the app and stared at the ceiling.
These people didn’t know us. Didn’t know this was a carefully constructed lie designed to separate them from their attention and money.
They believed in us.
And that made me either the world’s best performer or its worst fraud.
Maybe both.
My phone buzzed. Text from Leander:
You were wrong about one thing.
What?
I’m not scared of being alone. I’m scared of letting someone in and discovering I can’t feel anything real anymore. There’s a difference.
I stared at the text. At this moment of vulnerability from a man who’d probably delete it in the morning.
That’s not emptiness. That’s self-protection. Also very different.
How do you know?
Because I do the same thing. Just with fewer zeros in my bank account.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Goodnight, Morgana. Tomorrow we survive another day.
Tomorrow we lie to millions more people.
Same thing.
He was right.
And that scared me more than anything.
Because Leander Cork wasn’t just my fake fiancé.
He was starting to feel like my mirror.
And I didn’t like what that reflection showed.
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